


What Do You Know?

by rude_ravenclaw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cute, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 13:47:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11276538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rude_ravenclaw/pseuds/rude_ravenclaw
Summary: You meet the infamous Sherlock Holmes for the first time as a witness to a coworker's murder. He was tall, dark, handsome, and mysterious. A few days later, you never expected to be getting a text from an unknown number with the initials SH attached, asking you to... babysit?





	1. What Do You Know About Babies?

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on my Tumblr (fanfiction-palace).

You hadn’t known Sherlock Holmes for very long. You met him when he came to interrogate you about the murder of one of your colleagues. ‘A Deadly Lesson’ Dr. Watson had called it. A rather funny name for the case of the dead professor. You were a professor as well, a professor of English Literature. 

You remember meeting Sherlock Holmes all right. You caught his attention fast. He’d met people like himself before. Typically they were criminal masterminds or a sibling, but never someone who “teaches books” as he put it. 

_ “Good morning, (Y/N),” the gray-haired detective inspector said warmly, sticking out a calloused hand. You shook it and smiled kindly at him. “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade, and this is Sherlock Holmes, the other detective I mentioned on the phone.” _

_ “Yes, I’m Sherlock Holmes, pleasure to meet you Miss…” the tall, curly-haired companion of Lestrade’s said, also sticking out a hand. _

_ “Dr. (Y/L/N), but (Y/N) is just fine, Mr. Holmes,” you responded, shaking his hand in turn. He looked taken aback by the title of doctor but whipped out his cellphone and began to text. “Coffee, Detective Inspector?” You reached for the pot of coffee behind you. _

_ “Oh, no, I already…” he began to say before you cut him off. _

_ “I know you already had some. You had some black coffee at the office hoping to wash away the bitter taste of last night’s one night stand with something even more bitter. Clearly, it didn’t work. So how about some good coffee to replace the bitterness?” Lestrade stood stunned and out of the corner of your eye you could see Sherlock smirk, never taking his eyes off of his phone. _

That was the first and last time you met Sherlock Holmes. He was very kind, rather attractive, and undoubtedly clever. He solved the murder that day. You were impressed. You had read the blog but to see it happen in person was very impressive. He reminded you of a detective novel you had read when you were younger. Who was it by? Sir Aaron… Andrew Conan… Oh, it doesn’t matter. 

You met Sherlock Holmes two weeks ago. You never expected to get a text from him of all things. Perhaps a call to your office but how he got your cell number was beyond even someone as clever as you. 

It was about 7:30 PM on Friday night. You were settling down into your comfy chair with a cup of tea and Hemingway. Your phone lit up on the end table. That was odd. You had just moved to London at the beginning of this school year and hadn’t made any friends close enough to text you on a Friday night. 

You placed a slip of paper in your book and picked up your phone. 

**Help me. SH**

**Who is this?**

I tentatively took a sip of my tea, waiting for a reply. 

**Make a deduction. After that, answer this. What do you know about babies? SH**

You definitely didn’t expect this on a Friday night. Who could be asking you about babies on a Friday night and have the signature… It was Sherlock Holmes. John Watson had a baby. He’s looking after the baby. 

You didn’t respond in a text but called the number that had texted you. The phone didn’t ring for even half a beat before Sherlock picked up.

“You’re fast. So, tell me what you know about babies,” Sherlock said hastily, a crying baby in the background. “I’m on the phone! Don’t be disrespectful!” Sherlock said, clearly turned away from the phone. 

“Don’t yell at the baby, first of all. Second, what do you need to know? Where’s John?” you asked, trying to bite back a laugh. 

“He’s out. I’ve never had to look after her for more than an hour and never at night. I don’t know what it wants.” He sounded like a kid responsible for a puppy for the first time in his life. “Will you just come over here?”

This question took you by surprise. You had only met Sherlock once two weeks ago and he was trusting you to come over and help him look after a baby. Of course looking after a child was no problem, you had babysat friends’ children before. It was the fact that you were the first person he thought of to ask instead of admitting defeat and calling the father. It didn’t feel right. You shouldn’t be the one to take care of a stranger’s child. That didn’t stop you, however, from stuttering a “S..Sure. What is the address?”

“221B Baker St. And hurry.”

You quickly threw on a coat and grabbed your purse before racing out to the street to hail a cab. What were you doing? What else were you going to do? Read  _ The Old Man and the Sea _ for the fifth time? You saved Sherlock’s number into your phone on the way to Baker Street, in case of emergencies. 

You gave a rapid fire knock to the door and heard a feminine voice approaching the door. “Who could that be?” She opened the door completely, clearly a woman used to welcoming visitors with open arms. “Oh, hello, dear. Who…”

The woman was in a floral dress, wine stained her bottom lip, and a hand was behind her back. “You must be the landlady,” you said with a smile, “I’m (Y/N) and I’m here to…” 

Someone came stomping down the stairs. It was Sherlock. His curly hair was standing up where he had pulled it in frustration, his white shirt had the two top buttons undone, and a blue robe hung loosely around his shoulders. “Took you long enough! Did you walk here?” Sherlock exclaimed, gripping the banister until his knuckles turned white. “Never mind! Up here, quickly this time!”

“Nice to meet you,” you quickly said to the kind landlady before racing after Sherlock. You were affronted by the most disheveled flat you had ever seen and a screaming baby. In the middle of the flat, Sherlock was holding the baby out in front of him like it was a bag of snakes. You quickly took the baby from his arms and cradled her in your arms. “When was the last time she was fed?”

“Before John left,” he responded curtly. 

“And when was that?”

“Oh, I don’t know! I don’t keep a schedule of John!” 

“You’re shouting isn’t helping the situation, Mr. Holmes,” you said while also trying to coo to the young baby. 

“Sherlock, please,” he whispered.

You let out a huff of frustration before saying, “Was it more than 3 hours ago?”

“Oh, yes,” he said as if it meant nothing to him. 

“Well, she’s hungry then, Sherlock,” you scolded him as you made your way to the fridge. 

“How do you know it's that and not something like a dirty diaper?”

As you reached the fridge you just shook your head and said, “Oh, trust me, Sherlock, you would know if it was that.” You opened the fridge and quickly shut it. You slowly opened it again, confirmed that you saw a jar of toes, and grabbed a pre-made bottle of formula. Gently cradling the baby in one arm, you warmed up the bottle of formula. As soon as it was warm enough, you presented the nipple to the baby and she took it hungrily. 

“John should have told me about this inconvenience before he left,” Sherlock said over your shoulder, watching the baby. 

“I’m guessing he did and you weren’t listening,” you responded, gesturing to the note on the fridge that read: SHERLOCK, DO NOT FORGET TO FEED ROSIE AT 7!!!

Sherlock grunted in response and whisked back into the living room, taking a seat at a cluttered table. You followed, taking a seat on the couch against the oddly decorated wall. “I do hope those bullet holes were added before the baby arrived,” you said worriedly. 

“Why do you teach about books?” 

You were taken aback yet again by the detective. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“You’re clever, like me. You’re too clever to do such a medial thing as read and teach about books.”

“Thank you, I think? I don’t believe reading and teaching about books is medial at all. Its very important for the mind and soul.”

“Soul,” he scoffed. 

“Yes, the soul. That little thing inside of you that allows you to feel. You wouldn’t be taking care of Rosie here if you didn’t have feelings for you friend.”

“Oh, please, John and I are in no way.. He had a wife..”

“I don’t mean like that, Sherlock. I mean you love your friend, as a friend, a brother. You know how to feel, Mr. Too-Clever-For-A-Soul. Clearly, it is new to you, but you know how to feel. Reading can make you feel, teach you to feel.”

“I don’t read and I learned how to feel, as you put it.”

“Reading is one way to learn to feel. You’ve learned through your experiences. Others, like myself, learn through reading.” Rosie had finished off her bottle by now and you were holding her against your chest and gently patting her back, a towel over your shoulder. 

Sherlock looked up at you as he noticed you shift with Rosie. His blue eyes bore into you and you could feel a blush rise to your cheeks. “You’re interesting,” he whispered as if he was talking to himself. 

You didn’t know what to say. A silence took over the room until Rosie finally spit up. A look of pure terror crossed Sherlock’s face. You couldn’t help but let a giggle escape. “You did this too at some point,” you said as you changed out towels.

“I most certainly did not,” he responded, turning his attention back to the computer. You sat back down on the couch, leaning back and cradling Rosie against your chest. She was already fast asleep. 

You looked up at Sherlock to suggest the you should leave but he was deeply enthralled with whatever was on the screen. A lock of curls ghosted over his forehead. His eyebrows were knit together and one strong hand was balled up, his cheek resting against it. 

You let out a soft yawn, realizing how tired you were from a long day of grading papers. You let your head rest against the back of the couch, figuring Sherlock would wake you up eventually. Your eyes slowly drifted shut and you fell asleep, Rosie snoozing soundly on your chest. 

Sherlock didn’t know how long you had been asleep but when he looked up at you to ask if you wanted to help solve a case, your eyes were shut and your mouth was slightly agape. He couldn’t help but to softly smile. He stood up from the desk and walked over to the pair of you. Rosie was curled up contently on your bosom. Not seeing a blanket in John’s chair like there normally was, Sherlock slipped off his robe and draped it over the two of you. 

He gently brushed a lock of hair out of your face and admired your soft features. You were very interesting to Sherlock. He wanted to know more about your ideas on reading, about the way your mind worked similar to his, about you. You were right, he did love his friend, John. He wanted another friend he could love too, and maybe it could be you. 

Sherlock slunk over to his chair, curling up in it so he could sleep, as well. He let his eyes shut but the peaceful image of you never left.

***

Sherlock woke up to the sound of heavy, familiar footsteps on the stairs. It was John. He was being loud. He’d wake you up. 

Sherlock quickly, and quietly, made his way to the door. He opened it just before John and put any angry finger to his lips. “You’ll wake (Y/N)!” he hissed.

“Who’s (Y/N)? Where’s Rosie?” John said, a tone of worry in his voice. He pushed past Sherlock into the flat.

“I meant (Y/N) and Rosie, obviously,” Sherlock whispered.

“Who is that?” John inquired, pointing at you, still holding a sleeping Rosie. He was shaking with anger at seeing a stranger with his daughter.

“She’s uh… a friend.”

“A friend. I’m your friend. And what is she doing with my daughter?”

“Your daughter wouldn’t shut up so I needed help. She was the most logical person to call.”

“And I wasn’t? If you had a question, why didn’t you text me?” John and Sherlock had now moved to the kitchen so not to wake you and Rosie. 

“You were out. You were “getting back in the game.” Although, I probably should have and rescued you from the terrible sex you had last night..”

“How did you.. Never mind. Are you sure she is safe? I’ve never met her or have even heard of her.”

“Yes you have. She’s the doctor of books I told you about.”

John’s previously serious expression softened and he chuckled at his friend. “Oh, you mean the English professor you haven’t shut up about.”

John noticed a flash of red cross Sherlock’s face as he looked over his shoulder to see if you were still asleep. “Well, you’re home now. Rosie is fed and rested. I have a thief to go catch. Leave a kettle on, I’ll be home soon.” With that, he was gone in a whip of a gray coat and a blue scarf. 

John took a seat in his chair and opened the newspaper, figuring it was best to allow you both to sleep and not startle you. It was long before you woke up, though. “Sherlock?” you softly called as soon as you opened your eyes. 

You sat up slowly, Rosie still asleep in your arms. John rose and walked over to you. “G’morning, I’m John. Sherlock’s popped out for a bit. I can take her if you’d like.”

You handed Rosie over to John who settled her into a bassinet. “A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson..” you began.

“John, please.”

“John. Again, a pleasure. I’m Dr.(Y/N) (Y/L/N). I’m a uh… friend of Sherlock’s.”

“Yes, he told me.” You had beautiful (Y/E/C) eyes. “Thank you very much for helping him last night. For as clever as he is he can be rather dumb.” You both chuckled at this remark.

“Oh, it was no trouble at all. She was an absolute.. rose.” You smiled kindly at John who chuckled. You stretched your arms high and stood up, taking the robe with you and gently draping it over the couch. “I’m more than happy to help. Sherlock has my number if you ever need anything.”

John nodded and asked, “Would you care for a cuppa or some coffee?”

“Oh, no, but thank you, John,” you declined. “I should be getting home. I have more papers to grade.”

“Oh, of course, you’re a busy professor, I suppose.” John walked you down the stairs to the front door after you grabbed your coat and purse. “Thank you, again, for helping Sherlock.”

“You’re more than welcome. It was a pleasure. Sherlock was very…”

“Rude? Abrasive? Arrogant?”

You giggled. “Yes, but he was also kind, truly. I hope I’ll see you and Rosie again. Have a good day.”

“You too, (Y/N)!” John shouted as he waved at you from the front door. 

You hailed a cab and finally checked your phone for the morning as you rode home. You had, yet again, an unexpected text that you couldn’t help but smile at.

**Thank you. Library? Dinner? SH**

 


	2. What Do You Know About Love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, helping Sherlock Holmes by babysitting the adorable little Rosie. This time, however, knowledge on a much deeper subject than child care is tested.

The windows were thrown wide open, an unusually warm breeze filled your classroom. Bright, young faces stared at you, ready for you to fill their minds with new ideas, new points of view. Your heart felt as light as a feather, standing in front of young people who were ready to soak up any stroke of wisdom you could hand out. Today, however, the eyes of your pupils were slightly dulled by the topic.   
  
“Now, I know metonymy can be a bit monotonous,” you said, smirking at a rather embarrassed student. A few students snickered. The student in question had raised his hand at the beginning of class, confident that metonymy meant “lack of variety” and “dull.” “But bare with me for the last few minutes of class.”

As if on cue, the door creaked open and a tall man in an overcoat crossed the threshold. Everyone’s heads turned to see who the intruder was. Girls huddled their heads together in hushed excitement. “Mr. Holmes,” you smiled, “I’ll be with you in just a moment.” The curly-haired detective nodded to you with a small smile before taking a seat at an empty desk in the back of the class.

Your heart began to beat a little faster and you could feel your cheeks grow hot. This was the first time Sherlock had visited your classroom since the first time you met.

His sudden presence made you forget your place. “Um, yes, metonymy is also used in literature to make a complex sentence more concise, simple. Go back through what we have read in Hamlet so far and highlight examples of metonymy. We will revisit this rhetorical device as we continue reading. Class is dismissed.” Chairs scraped across the wooden floor and notebooks shuffled off the desks into backpacks. “And remember class, Carpe Diem!”

A few students shouted the proverb back to you before exiting the room. One student stayed behind to ask if the book club was still meeting on Thursday and you assured her that it was. The class was empty in about 15 seconds, rather slow actually. “Seize the day?” Sherlock piped up, still seated at the desk.

You smiled at Sherlock as you watched him take long strides towards you. He grinned back at you. That smile was contagious. Since the first time you met, you and Sherlock have been on a few dates, if you could call them that. About 90% of these “dates” were you tagging along on cases because John couldn’t find a babysitter. He had taken you out to dinner a few times, no murderers or jewel thieves involved, and it was very pleasant. Oh, it was more than pleasant. The time you spent with Sherlock was extraordinary.

“Yes, seize the day,” you replied. “I like to encourage my students to take advantage of the moment, seize the day for themselves, take control of their lives.”

Sherlock smiled at you, “Interesting. Intelligent.”

“Well, I stole the idea from the movie but most of them don’t know that,” you say with a laugh. A low laugh rumbles in Sherlock’s chest. “So, what can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock looked to the floor and rubbed the back of his neck with one large hand. He looked back up to you, soft, blue eyes locked on yours, curls bouncing on his forehead, “I don’t know,” he began in a low tone. His words worried you. “I found myself thinking about and just had to see you.”

You blushed deeply and looked to the floor. You leaned back against your desk, hands stuffed in your pockets. “I’ve been thinking about you too, Sherlock.” Sherlock was standing awfully close to you but you loved it. You looked back up at him. He was gazing warmly at you. He didn’t breathe a word. His silence said enough, though. You studied his face, his ocean-filled eyes, his plump lips, the stubble that hugged his jaw, the arch of his cheekbones. You shifted your gaze between his eyes and lips.

Before you could reach your hand up to caress his warm cheek, his voice chimed in, “I need you...” you needed him too, “to look after Rosie tonight.”

“What?”

“John and I have to wrap up a huge case tonight and he needs a babysitter. John was too nervous to ask. He said it would be rude,” he concluded with a roll of his eyes. The fantasy world you were in moments before was fading away into mist. Who were you kidding? Sherlock was not the kind of man to be so forward about his feelings.

You shifted your weight on your feet. You opened and closed your mouth like a fish before saying, “Yeah, sure. When do you want me there?”

“Would five o’clock work?”

You glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost 3:30 and your office hours ended at 4:30. This meant you were heading straight to Baker Street from the college. You sighed and nodded to Sherlock.

Sherlock beamed at you, his eyes crinkling up. You impulsively smiled back at him. “Thank you,” he said before grazing a kiss across your right cheek. “I know you were expecting something like that.” He quickly turned on his heel towards the door. He seemed to be nervously mumbling to himself the entire trek to the door.

You stood stunned for a few moments. Sherlock had made gestures of affection before but never like that. He had put a protective arm around you at parties, lent you his scarf at colder locations, draped his robe over your sleeping body. You hesitantly touched your fingertips to your cheek, almost expecting the skin to feel different. You chuckled at yourself. Were you in high school?

Lost in thought, you wandered back to your office. You slumped into the desk chair. A slew of papers to grade graced the inbox on your computer. You groaned and ran a hand through your hair, reclining in the chair. You picked up your phone to see a text from the only person who texted you, Sherlock.

What do you want for dinner? I’ll leave it in the fridge for you. SH

You smiled at the kind gesture.

My usual from Speedy’s will be just fine. Thank You

***

You arrived at 221 Baker Street just as the clock towers chimed five. Frantically, you knocked on the door, straightening the crooked knocker as you did so. The door was thrown open before you could lower your hand. Mrs. Hudson smiled at you but her face look flustered. “Oh, (Y/N), the boys are upstairs just itching to leave. I’ll be popping out too. Farewell, deary,” she said in a huff.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Enjoy your evening,” you replied, squeezing past her. You took the stairs two at time and burst into the living room of 221B. “I’m here,” you exclaimed.

Sherlock was standing beside the fireplace, a wiggly Rosie in his arms. He was dressed in his best suit and, damn, he looked sharp. He pointed to you and said to Rosie, “Who’s that?” She burst into a fit of giggles and clapped her chubby hands together.

“(Y/N),” she squealed, butchering your name. You dropped your bag on the couch and walked over to Sherlock, taking Rosie into your arms for a big hug.

“Hi there, Rosie,” you beamed, pinching one cheek. “I’m sorry I’m late,” you said, turning to Sherlock.

He shook his head with a grimace. “Don’t be. John is taking forever to get ready. JOHN!” he exclaimed.

You laughed at Sherlock’s frustration and Rosie joined in. John rushed into the living room. You turned your gaze to the doctor. He was in an all black tux, his silver hair slicked back with perfection. “My, my Dr. Watson,” you began with a smirk, “the women will be swooning to get a little mouth-to-mouth from you.”

John blushed so hard that he was almost purple. Sherlock nudged you gently with his elbow but his frame was shaking with laughter. “Da, da!” Rosie squealed, her little hands grasping for John.

He walked towards you and planted a kiss on Rosie’s cheek. “I’ll see you later, giggle-bug,” he smiled at her. He turned his attention to you. “Thank you for this, (Y/N).” He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Sherlock’s jaw clench as he watched John’s actions.

“Anytime, John,” you began, “Judging by your walk, I suppose mouth-to-mouth won’t be happening with random women tonight.” John looked at you puzzled. “That pep in your step shows that you have a special girl other than the one in my arms.” You smirked at him.

John pointed one of his infamous fingers at you and glared at Sherlock. “You know, one of you doing this is enough.” You and Sherlock burst into laughter and John stormed away to grab his coat.

Sherlock turned to you and lightly touched your arm before clasping his hands behind his back. “Thank you. I will see you later.” John was standing in the doorway, now waiting on Sherlock. Sherlock rocked back on his heels before continuing, “They were all out of that Cherry Cola you like.”

“It’s alright. I probably drink too much of it anyway. Now, go,” you reassured him, pushing his arm lightly. Sherlock gave you a small smile before walking towards John who was holding his coat. Sherlock had one sleeve through when you said, “Sherlock, wait.” He turned to you, one arm in his coat and the other half-way. You strode over to him, with more confidence than you thought you had, and planted a kiss on his cheek. “I could tell you were expecting that,” you whispered before stepping back.

John chuckled to himself and Sherlock looked stunned as he followed his companion out the door. Rosie made kissing sounds so you pecked her cheek as well. “So, Rosie, what do you want to do?”

“Hop-bit!” she said, bouncing in your arms.

“The Hobbit? Again?” You set her down on the couch before walking over to the bookcase. As you made your way back to the couch, the worn copy of J.R.R. Tolkien's novel in your hands, Rosie made a roaring noise at you and turned her hands into little claws. “We’ll get to the Smaug part, don’t worry,” you giggled at her.

About the introduction of the mountain trolls, Rosie nodded off in your lap. You laid her gently on the couch, propping a pillow under her head. You found her blanket on John’s chair and tucked it in around her. Finally, you dug into the sandwich Sherlock had bought you. You sat in Sherlock’s chair, tucking your legs up against you.

Around 11 o’clock, Mrs. Hudson returned. You heard her go straight to her rooms downstairs. You had forgotten to ask when they would be home but it would have done no good. Whatever Sherlock said wouldn't have been true.

You let out a long yawn and curled up in Sherlock’s chair. Before you could fall asleep, a little hand tugged at your pant leg. You opened your eyes to see Rosie looking up at you with large, scared eyes. “What is it, Rosie?” you ask, concerned.

“Twolls,” she whispered, her bottom lip quivering. A bad dream about the trolls. You pulled Rosie into your lap and stroked her soft hair. You reassured her that the trolls wouldn't get her and she quickly fell back to sleep. Not too long after, you had nodded off as well.

***

John and Sherlock returned at about midnight. The evening had been successful and Mr. Wellington’s prized beagle was safe and sound. Both John and Sherlock were melted to feelings of warmth and fondness as they laid eyes on the scene in the living room. Rosie’s head was tucked under your chin, her mouth slightly open. Your arms were wrapped protectively around her, a soft snoring emanating from you.

John pried Rosie from your arms and took her up to his room. “Goodnight Sherlock,” he whispered before creeping up the stairs. Sherlock grunted in affirmation before turning to you, curled up in his chair. A soft smile graced his face as he watched you sleep. He didn't quite understand how he felt about you. There were feelings similar to the ones he had towards John, but there was something else. Your presence made him forget what he was thinking. Your face made him want to do things he only thought of in private moments. Your voice made him want to close his eyes and listen to you talk for hours. It bewildered Sherlock.

You shifted in your sleep and mumbled something, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts. He stepped towards you, reaching a hand out and stroking your hair. Then Sherlock made the decision to bend down, scoop you into his arms, and bring you back to his bedroom. Your head rested against his chest. He laid your still sleeping body on his bed, pulling the duvet over you. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, stroking your hair gently. Oh, how he had longed to do this. Your hair was softer than he had imagined.

Looking at you. Taking care of you. Touching you. Sherlock realized something. He loved you. This had to be it. It was the only logical explanation. The only emotional explanation. Sherlock loved you. “What do you know about love?” Sherlock said to himself, still a little doubtful that he could feel such a thing.

“More than you think,” you mumbled at him, a shadow of a smile on your lips. Sherlock’s fingers froze in your hair and a deep tomato red rose to his cheeks. You opened one eye to look at the man. “You didn't expect me to stay asleep being jostled around like that, did you?” you giggled at him.

Sherlock quickly pulled his hand away and began to stammer, “I didn't… I'm sorry I.. You were..”

You sat and took Sherlock’s hands in yours. They were large and rough but warm. “Sherlock, stop,” you whispered. He closed his mouth, concern written on his face. Hesitantly, you raised a hand to his cheek. You drew small circles with your thumb over his cheekbone. He brought up one hand to cover yours. You locked your eyes with his silky blue ones. Before you could think, the words came tumbling out of your mouth, “I love you, Sherlock.”

He closed his fingers around your hand then leaned in, pressing his lips firmly against yours. You smiled and leaned into it. His lips were soft and tasted of peppermint and tobacco. They melded perfectly with yours. Sherlock finally pulled away, to your dismay. “I love you too,” he said, his voice a deep, smooth ripple. “I love you,” he repeated, a wide smile on his face. Of course, you had to smile too. You threw your arms around Sherlock. He buried his face into your neck and clung to you desperately. “I love you.”

  
  



End file.
